The Interviewer

Half an hour in a smooth wood heaven,
two seconds spent on stone steps so uneven and jagged
the path upward seemed momentarily too treacherous;

and at the top
there are miles of glass
cold handshake with five faceless fingers and a
beautiful cat made of a velvet spine,
and I am amazed that heaven should be so cold and diamond-sharp.

I wonder how she drives in the rain -
surgeon's hands gripping the wheel until
blood runs white in her veins,
eyes smirking at the slick concrete field
knowing she will come home to
scientific journals edited by
someone she traded pleasantries with
in an ill-lit cafe twenty years ago;

but she always dreams three hours ahead
to a world transformed every three months
and city-hopping professors with awkward wrinkles and tanlines
who might remember her as the girl who
loved the redness of eastern leaves so much she
traveled west, racing the onset of autumn
only to wake up and realize:

her heaven has no view,
only foliage that stayed green through man's descent.